


just how HIGH do you even have to BE

by quenive



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon Setting, Established Relationship, Frottage, M/M, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Sloppy Makeouts, Stridercest - Freeform, a shitpost that spiralled out of control, handjobs, hella marijuana, high dialogue, or at least implied?, very lazy frottage sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9095023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quenive/pseuds/quenive
Summary: Looks like those Strider boys are in trouble again, and not just because smoking weed is illegal. Heads up, it's high sex!





	

**Author's Note:**

> A very elaborate 3am shitpost

Dirk stares at a dot on the floor. Floor to them, anyways. A lab roof automatically becomes a floor once someone’s on it. The dot irritates his eye. A dead bug, specifically. It moves. He squints under his shades because, a mere few minutes ago, he accidentally stepped on it while attempting to squat (which resulted in him plopping down on his ass, then lifting himself up to squat again). It was without a doubt dead. Why is it vibrating?

“Dude,” Dave nudges him. Dirk flinches like the devil himself offered him a spot in hell. “Sorry - but dude. Your hit,” he hands him the sloppily rolled joint.

Dirk takes it, stares at it for a second before bringing it to his lips and inhaling. His hair feels like cotton on his head, he duly notes.

“Dude but I’ve been like, I’ve been thinking,” he pulls his knees to his chest. Dirk holds the joint by the flop in between his two fingers. It burns slowly.

“What about?” he asks, then hands the blunt to Dave. A quick glance to the bug on the floor, and it isn’t vibrating anymore.

“Like, we’re sharing this thing, right?” Dave asks for confirmation before taking a huge hit. He coughs, though it isn’t as aggressive as it was the first time.

“Right,” holy fuck. It moved again. Beetle zombies are a frightening concept. He puts his foot on it.

“And it has our spit on it, right?”

“Right,” through his shoe, he feels the bug biting through the thick bottom. He imagines it drilling, making a tunnel into his foot. He flinches it away.

Dave handed him the joint again.

“So by every possible factor in the Official List of Possible Factors,” he looks up to the open sky, then sprawls his legs as far as they go, violently. “We basically made out.”

“I’m finishing this,” Dirk tilts the blunt up in a vague gesture. There was a small bit left.

“The shade is more suffocating than the smoke,” Dave makes a face. “Go for it.”

Dirk sucks in the rest in one go. Dave’s eyes grow wider, mainly because he feels the salt inside of him grow once Dirk single-handedly proves that his “I can finish a Capri Sun in one succ” claim wasn’t all for naught. Hand on heart, this wasn’t no god damn Capri Sun.

Dirk coughs and flicks the flop away. Dave instantly feels more content, at least until Dirk’s cough fit came to a drastic halt.

“That’s,” he attempts to deadpan, but his voice was too hoarse for it to be taken even remotely seriously. “Really fucking gay, man.”

“You’re really fucking gay, man,” he plops back-down onto the concrete floof (floor roof), and instantly regrets it once he comes to the conclusion that he drastically miscalculated the hardness of the surface. Dirk outwardly cringes as Dave grimaces with pain.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. We should go inside,” he suggests.

Dirk death-glares at the bug. It wasn’t moving, though he could have sworn it changed its color. It doesn't spook him as much as he expected it to spook him. He looks at it fondly, suddenly mesmerized by the way its tough and smooth exterior reflects the light, and how the many shades of many different colors compliment the originally disgusting abomination of an insect.

Okay, holy fuck. It moved now. It opened its beetle shield and spread out its wings and catapulted out into the sky.

Dirk fell on his ass, again. His tailbone took one hit too many today. Even with that in mind, and his body heavy, he crawls his way towards Dave and lays down besides him. The horizontal surface under them is just as uncomfortable as you’d expect it to be. And more. The hatch is alluring. It beckons the two males with its dreamy rounded hatch door, leaving a handful of traits to the imagination. What is under the hatch door, that heavy, heavy door which bears a girth so mighty? Such elegance and poise must hide a lovely set of ladder underneath. And maybe a row of stairs, though be warned-

“Nah,” Dirk’s train of thought was interrupted by his own abrupt vocalization. His vocal folds are, are kind of rude. Not knowing what to make of this strange phenomena, he points high up to the sky.

Dave follows his finger with his eyes, and thanks all of what is to be thanked that he is wearing his shades. They are really heavy. He takes them off, sets them aside, and squints at the sun. Not really at the sun directly, however. An inch or two away. An inch, or two? From his perspective, yes, but it isn’t… it isn’t really an inch or two. Like, lightyears could be separating the spot he’s looking at and the sun itself, but is his brain comprehending any of the given information? His brain was doing a quadruple backflip into this bucket of cottage cheese, squashing down on it with its little brain feet. Dave snorts at himself. Imagine a brain with little, adorable feet. And little adorable arms. It would look like a fetus. Dave’s smile died down.

"The thing up there, it's too nice to ditch," Dirk drops his arm down and glances at Dave.

“Today is the day,” Dave vaguely states.

“The sun is shining,” Dirk follows up soon after. Soon, again, from his perspective. In reality, the gap between Dave’s statement and Dirk’s addition to the statement was a good minute. Or two. Depends on which Strider you feel like asking.

“The tank is clean,” Dave inches his body closer to Dirk’s, making it possible for their hips to lightly touch. Dirk did the rest by pushing his upper body into Dave’s. They were huddled close like two sardines in a can despite the spacious floof they laid on.

“Holy shit,” he somehow wiggles his arm out from in-between their bodies, and throws it up over his head. The other one remains down his body, unimpeded in its determination to stay still exactly where it is. “The tank is clean.”

“Man,” content, Dirk takes his own shades off and sets them on his own side, nudges them away to make sure there won’t be accidental points poking him in places where the sun above don’t shine. And that’s saying something, since that yellow asshole up there? Yeah, it’s pretty fucking nosy and gets away with looking into every nook and cranny it can. Not Dirk’s nook, not his cranny. No fucking way. “I wish I could speak whale.”

Dave turns his head, albeit with some effort. His neck feels heavy and it isn’t even actively supporting the head on his shoulders. Both his and Dirk’s hair have gone to shit at this point, and the back pain is overlooked when he goes in to brush his nose against Dirk’s ear. Hand on heart a second time, it was a bit difficult to do without smelling his pits and with his whole entire arm in the way. But he managed.

Dirk gets instant goosebumps by the gentle touch. It tickles, but it tickles in a good way.

“Leeeeeeeeeeet’s booooooooooone,” Dave draws out into Dirk’s ear, voice cracking in a way that would put a lot of indie singers to shame.

“Weren’t you just complaining about how the joint we shared made us gay by an unfortunate spit swap?” Dirk tilts his head in Dave’s direction. He feels Dave’s nose enter his earlobe, so he jerks his head away from the startle. Dave doesn’t seem to notice, he remains exactly where he is.

“You’re the one who used the G word, bro,” Dave attempts to shrug. To an extent, he succeeds. Everything outside of the term “extent” was just awkward and weird and Dave did not want to be associated with any of this ever. “Not a single complaint left these puckers. See these aggrandized blood sacks?” Dirk couldn’t see Dave pursing his lips from that angle. Or did, in the corner of his eye. Subtly, though it’s anyone’s guess was it his actual eyes taking in that info or is his imagination just that thirsty for Strider lip action. “Never filed a complaint in their lives.”

“M rated SBAHJ doujinshi,” artist, anonymous. It’s Dirk.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Dave groans and backs his head away. Dirk returns his own head to a more natural position, a contrast to the neck-killing lean-to-the-side he did to avoid further nose-to-ear intrusions.

“Yeah,” Dirk tilts his head down, his neck makes a suspicious noise. Whatever it is, he’ll probably survive. Survive by partially tucking his head into Dave’s armpit. He looks up at him as far as his eyeballs could reach, which wasn’t really that far. Dirk is pretty much convinced that, somehow, they would squeeze out of his face is he strains them further. He _knows_ it’s impossible, but. But just in case, he isn’t leaving anything to chance. It’s a risk he isn’t ready to take. He flutters his eyelashes at Dave, seductively. “We should totally bone.”

“See,” Dave fakes an accusing tone, which is washed down by five additional layers of lazy and just plain fucking high. “You can speak whale.”

“Hoooooooly shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit,” Dirk replies in a whalesh accent. “Yooooooouuuuu'reeeeeeeee riiii-”

“Please don’t I can hear it echoing through my cave of a skull. Like you know when bats do that scream thing to see shit and they throw sound around and catch it back in this fucked up turn of events where sound is taken as an object that can bounce off of crap?”

“Yeah.”

“Well they should make a sport. Batball,” Dave replaces his lost thought with an even better thought. Dirk shakes his head a no, and Dave can feel his hand slowly falling asleep. And with a fucked up position like that, it would be weird if it didn’t.

“Check under the utility belt, got plenty of that down there,” he grins. Dave’s other hand finally rose up from its locked formation just to gently swat Dirk on the stomach. He keeps it there.

“Don’t think I wouldn’t if I could.”

The position getting more uncomfortable, Dirk puts his head back onto the floof below, no matter how soft Dave’s armpit might be.

Dave groans while forcing that one arm that decided to stay up, down. It was pretty reluctant, though the power of mind is stronger than that of the body. He’s pretty sure that’s the saying, or that there’s a saying like that, somewhere. Maybe. Instead of putting it down completely, he decides to hook it around Dirk’s head. Not under it, for it will trigger even more falling asleep and possibly make some runaway gravel engrave into his arm. No one wants that. His elbow pit is tickled by Dirk’s hair, which now lacked the roughness of his styling gel. The pins and needles crept up quickly.

“You think it’s okay to bone here?” Dirk asks, purposely shaking his head to agitate Dave’s antecubital space. Dave cringes. His pins and needles weren’t a fan of Dirk’s fucking around.

“Everybody is high when this shit goes down,” Dave brushes it off.

“Everybody?”

“ _Everybody._ ”

“Thank fucking god then,” as far fetched as the reference may be, Dirk can’t find it in himself to care further. He makes his hand crawl up to cover the one Dave still had on his stomach.

Their eyes lock for a moment before both of them look up again, both making a nearly in sync squint at the bright sun. The birds are chirping in the surrounding trees and both of them can’t help but feel at least a little exposed. Though no one comes around here often, there’s still that inescapable feeling of nakedness without actually being bare. Dirk exhales a long, long sigh before sitting up.

The whole world, but every time you abruptly shoot up into a sitting position it gets faster. So fast, shit’s spinning in front of his field of vision like a ballerina on cocaine. It must have been obvious to Dave, who has been looking at his brother staring at a single spot in the distance for over five minutes now. For a Knight of Time, his perception of his aspect goes to utter shit when he’s high on some mediocre greenleaf. Ironic, yeah. It’s been a whole minute in real time, but Dave still blinks at what caused his brother such trouble. Probably the weed.

“It’s the weed,” Dirk randomly blurts out. Yeah, definitely the weed.

Dave props himself up on his elbows. Everything seems so slow and awkward, nothing aligning with what he hoped for this to be. But in a game like this it’s important to expect the unexpected, and that’s just what Dave has to settle for.

“So, how do you plan on getting on with this?” he asks like any good, considerate boyfriend would.

Dirk glances down at him, then back to a nonexistent spot in the far distance. He nods to himself, then holds up a finger to Dave.

“I need to shimmy,” Dirk dips his hands down to untie his sweatpants string. He pulled the wrong part, thus forming the dreadful deathknot. Noticing that his nails are too blunt to loosen the thing, he groans the groan of a broken man and turns to Dave, eyes full of silent plea and regret.

“Dave,” he says.

“Okay,” Dave answers.

The following minute passes with Dave struggling to get up, then hopping to his knees when he finally does. He’s a little wobbly on them but appreciates the extra leverage he gets when Dirk presses his legs together so Dave can sit astride his thighs. Crawling towards them was a less graceful act. It’s already behind him.

“Bet you’re glad I didn’t cut my nails,” Dave swats Dirk’s fingers away from the string, then jabs his fingernails into the knot.

“Ain’t goin’ no where near my ass.”

“Subabaway is for _only_ when you’re high,” Dave shakes it a little. It isn’t budging much, but he can personally feel some progress coming along. He sticks his tongue out to highlight his concentration. “Jesus. How and why.”

“Pardon?”

“Why do you tie your sweatpants? ” Dave’s face lit up when it finally let loose and allowed him to untangle the mess. He is very proud of himself, and will continue to be proud of himself for as long as the marijuana runs through his system.

“Why do you stuff your pajama pants into your socks when you sleep?”

“I’m changing the topic,” Dave keeps his cringe inward as he hooks his thumbs into the sides of Dirk’s sweatpants elastic. “Ass up, please.”

“Consider the ass elevated,” easier said than done. Dirk lifts his butt up so Dave can pull his pants down. Down his ass, anyways. If anything, it went to the side rather than down. Would it be considered down if they’re laying on the floor? Roof.

Dirk needs a breather.

“Going commando?” Dave asks as soon as he gets an eyeful of Strider dick.

“My dick needs to breathe.”

“Does it need some mouth-to-mouth?” Dave wiggles his eyebrows. Dirk’s half chub doesn’t reply.

“Don’t make it shrivel up, dude. It’s doing the best it goddamn can,” Dirk furrows his brows and leans back, still supporting himself with his arms. There are some tiny stones digging into his hands, but he doesn’t feel them at all. The green in his body makes him near-invincible.

“Alright, alright,” Dave reaches to take a hold of it, somewhat clumsily. He gives the soft cock a decent pump, two, three. Dirk tilts his head back and closes his eyes, attempting to concentrate on getting hard and avoiding crippling embarrassment. He did not need to concentrate much. The tiniest touch sent twists to his gut, and Dave was happy to provide an abundance of those.

“Fuck, man,” he breathes, noting that what he got ain’t half a chub no more, not by a long shot. He peeked through one eye to see Dave in action. His face, the epitome of concentration. His hand? A sanctuary. Even if it was slow, lazy, and drawn out, it lifted him up more than any plant ever could.

“Yeah,” Dave replies, but above all it was an affirmation. ‘Yes I’m here’, his every action showed. The pumps down were quicker, hastier than the pulls up. He makes those longer, pulls the foreskin over the glans and makes advances on it with his thumb, occasionally.

Dirk sighs out, then vocalizes his appreciation for the gesture with a hum originating from deep within his chest. He peeks again once he feels Dave apply pressure, though on his thighs, with his hips. He's trying to grind on him.

“Dude, you hard?” Dirk asks with a voice nearly as hoarse as it was when he was coughing on the marijuanas.

“Fuck yes,” Dave lets go of Dirk. The heat is missed, sure, but the view he got really did make up for it. Dave wobbles up to his feet, unbuckles the belt of his jeans and slides out of them with more frustration than grace. Left leg, right leg. One by one, slowly, before tossing his pants aside.

He then plants his naked ass back onto the soft fabric of Dirk’s dark grey sweatpants. Their cocks aligned nicely, Dave pulls his shirt up so it doesn’t get in the way, wrinkling it heavily in the process.

“You’s belong in the holy fucking buble,” Dirk notes. Dave takes both of their cocks in his fist, barely curling his fingers around them.

“If I was any more stoned _then_ that, sure,” he pumps, and both of their hips follow the motion. “Wait. Don’t do that, wait.”

“Okay.”

Dave takes a deep breath and rubs again, this time with minimal interference from their desperate bodies. Alright, that’s cool. They can handle that.

A hypocrite he may be, Dave found himself bucking up the next few strokes. Dirk didn’t mind, he found himself enjoying the way Dave tries to rub them so frantically, the way his hips go up and down to accommodate the movements of his own hand. A hand which he retracts for a moment, in which he spits out the little amount of saliva he built up in his dry mouth, and which he uses as a lubricant substitute for the time being.

It shouldn’t be _that_ relevant. It’s spit, after all. To Dirk, it feels like it's burning. Pleasant burning, but his dick is on liquid spit fire and god, god it feels fucking good. It felt better seeing how hard Dave works for it, how fast he was going despite the drug in his system forcing him to go slower.

“Dirk,” Dave breaths out in sync with Dirk, both of their chests heaving as if they’re one orgasm short of a heart attack. “Dirk, I’m gonna fucking come to, on, and for you,” he whines.

Dirk ends up supporting himself with one hand, other one reaching for their cocks.

“Let go, let go,” he hurriedly nudges Dave's hand. Dave jerks it away like he just got stung by a hornet. Dirk takes over, albeit the minuscule gravel pieces might be a mistake in the long run. He couldn’t care less now.

Dave’s still doing most of the job, rolling his hips up and down now opposite to Dirk’s jerking. His hands are on Dirk’s shoulders, more for moral support than anything else. Dirk isn’t as fast as Dave was, but Dave made up for the both of them by creating more and more friction.

Without a verbal warning, Dave finishes first. His eyes go closed, mouth shaped in an “o”, and abdominal muscles visibly tense, the visual being a courtesy of the lifted shirt. He finishes all over himself and Dirk, and some of it even ends up on Dirk’s black tanktop. The stain will never come out, but Dirk won’t mind.

“Oh god,” Dave breathes, wraps his arms tighter around Dirk. He brings his lips to the other’s ear, getting another wave of goosebumps to wash over Dirk. Dave, of course, is completely clueless about them. Even if he knew, at this state, caring about them is the last thing on his mind. “Thanks,” his breathing fluctuates, heavy panting mixed with shallow gasps. Suspicious.

“You okay?” Dirk asks, worry distinguishable in his tone.

“Yeah,” Dave moves back. His dick is already flaccid, but his glance falls onto Dirk’s still hard dick. “Need help with that?”

“Like, if you want,” he replies.

Dave put his hand over it, petting it gently like a fragile, scared woodland creature.

“I have the worst case of cotton mouth right now,” he pumps once, slowly and without a hurry. “So this’ll have to do. You up?”

“God yes, I’m up,” it goes both ways, his willingness to let Dave work and his cock. A drill that reaches high into the sky, a drill that will pierce the heavens. “I can moisten your mouth up. I got spit for days. It’s a floodage in my mouth.”

“Floodage,” he snorts. “Gross. C'mere.”

They bunp their faces together in a comedic fashion before finding each other’s lips. Dave wasn’t kidding when he said cotton mouth, and Dirk wasn’t kidding when he said he had a whole pool going on in there. They just kept their mouths pressed together as Dave sped up his wrist flicks. Not much going down in that department, though Dirk’s tongue made subtle advances into Dave’s mouth. The notion was appreciated by Dave’s tongue, which reciprocated the action.

They ate each other’s faces, basically. Sloppy, messy makeouts are a necessity when it comes to sloppy, messy, high handjobs. Dirk squeals out a bunch of high pitched noises into the kiss. Dave’s pattern isn’t as fast as it can get, but it’s enough. Enough for Dirk to breath out one more row of frantic sighs and finish.

They part, Dave lifts his hand to lick the semen off.

“Wasn’t my spit enough?” Dirk licks his lips. There is a lot of spit on Dave’s face too, but he shrugs it off.

“Gotta get that flavor somehow.”

“Enjoy my dick aftertaste,” Dirk shrugs too, Dave shuffles off of him and sits on the pair of jeans on the floor. Dirk pulls his sweatpants back on, having no will whatsoever to clean himself at the moment. He ties the string again, loosely.

“It’s too hot to get dressed,” Dave states and stares off into the distance.

There’s a comfortable silence surrounding them, though Dirk’s ears pound with an indistinguishable pulse. It isn’t sound, but it also isn’t _not_ sound.

“This is nice,” he says after a while. The sun isn’t too aggressive, it’s comfortable on his skin. “We don’t get enough us time.”

“We should do this more often.”

“Yeah,” Dirk turns to him, he’s still staring at something out there. The way the sun’s rays highlight Dave’s blond hair is nothing below perfect, and the profile he’s displaying compliments his best features. Dirk looks at him fondly, with a smile so light it’s almost invisible, though still genuine. “We deserve it.”


End file.
